The Watch (The Red Series Book 1) by Amanda Witt Read Free Book Online Page A

old
people—that was what I called the handful of elderly people who had been
kind to me when I was a lonely little girl, ignored or taunted by the older
children.
    “There you are!” she said. “I was worried when you didn’t
come to breakfast.” Until she got too old, Estelle had been a cook, and she
still kept an eye on things in the cafeteria.
    “I overslept.” I was out of breath and the words came out
wispily.
    Estelle shook her head in disapproval. “You young ones
shouldn’t have to choose between food and sleep. You’re growing so fast, you
need plenty of both.”
    Plenty of both. Now there was a joke. Portion size was based
on consumer size—you had to grow on what they gave you before they gave
you anything to grow on—so people with fast metabolisms were at a disadvantage.
    “I have to go,” I said as I reached the sidewalk. “I’m going
to be late to work.”
    “Go on, then,” Estelle said, making a comfortable shooing
motion. “Have a pleasant day.”
    Tucking Cynda’s comb int o my shirt pocket, I took off at a hard run . At the
corner I glanced back. Estelle was standing where I’d left her. She waved
merrily, but with her other hand she was tugging at the threadbare collar of
her shirt, trying to cover her throat. That worried me—she was cold, and
winter wasn’t here yet. The breeze was crisp but not unpleasant, not even for
me with my wet hair and bare feet.
    There was nothing I could do for her, though, so
I put her out of my mind and kept running. It was hard to run hungry, and I
knew running would make me hungrier still, but I so didn’t want to be late. If
the warden watching the cameras didn’t notice my tardiness, any number of field
workers would be happy to report me.
    I reached the street that led to my fields and
then had to pause to keep from getting run over by a big work truck rumbling
past, its loose tailgate rattling . Four or
five mechanics were sitting in the back.
    If I’d thought of it in time I could have waved
the driver down and maybe, if he was feeling magnanimous, hitched a ride. Now
all I could do was keep running down the road behind the truck, breathing its
dust, feeling faint with hunger and fear of being late, while the guys in the
truck bed watched me with varying degrees of indifference and mockery.
    One of them—Farrell Dean, a friend of Meritt’s and by extension a friend of mine—dangled a
hand casually over the side. He was holding a wrench, and when the truck hit a
rough spot he dropped it. He stood up, unsteady in the rocking truck bed, and
banged on the top of the cab.
    The driver didn’t stop, but he slowed considerably.
Farrell Dean jumped out and jogged back to pick up the fallen tool.
    “Better hurry,” he said, snatching up the wrench
and turning back. The truck was still cruising slowly along, but when he
climbed back in it would take off. I was faster than Farrell Dean, though, or
at least more motivated, so I put on a burst of speed and had almost caught up
to him when he grabbed the tailgate and swung himself back in. Instantly the
truck sped up. I gave it everything I had, running all out, as the men in the
truck bed shouted at me, some encouraging, some jeering.
    Just when I was about to give up hope, Farrell
Dean stuck out a hand. I grabbed it and my shoulder jerked and my feet left the
ground, and then he pulled me up and my feet found the bumper. I clung there,
panting hard, holding on to the tailgate that was already warm with the morning
sun, and the men clapped and hooted and booed, and Farrell Dean kept a
steadying hand on my arm.
    “Throw her back!” one of them advised.
    “No way,” another said. “She’s a field worker.
We need all of those we can get.”
    Then the truck passed a tractor shed, where two
men were arguing and waving shovels around threateningly, and the men lost
interest in me.
    I leaned in close to Farrell Dean and caught a
faint whiff of motor oil, which probably meant he’d done someone a